Chapter III

III

 

I squeezed my way through the crowded entry corridor.  I was greeted by a myriad of painted faces.  They sized me up and down and one even winked.  Here and there I gave the once over, but that was the extent of my interest.  I wanted no part of their fake smiles and cosmetic conversations.  In fact, I considered leaving but decided to stay and thank Madigan for the invitation. 

“Have you seen him?” I asked a thirty-something lady in the dining room.

She shook her head. 

“Well, if you see him, let him know I’m looking for him,” I said.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Richard Winston,” I replied.

“Am I supposed to know that name?”

I shook my head.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Then how does he know you?” she asked.

“He invited me.”

“He invited you,” she said.

I nodded.

“I’ve never met anyone invited to one of these parties,” she said.

“Well,” I said, “This is your lucky day.”

“Would you introduce me?”

“I have to find him first,” I told her.

“He’s somewhere over there,” she said.

I headed in the direction she pointed and asked another passerby, “Have you seen him?”

“I don’t know what he looks like,” she replied.

At least, I knew what he looked like.  So I went to the balcony and found Heather.  She was standing between two large potted plants.  She had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  I went up to her.

“You’re late,” she said, glancing at her cell. 

I leaned against the rail next to her.

“I’m about to leave,” she said.

“My invitation made no mention you would be waiting.”

She smiled.

“I’m not even sure why I got invited,” I told her.

“Why you silly boy,” she grinned.  “I told him.”

“You did?”

She nodded.

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, flicking her cigarette over the rail, “but now I have to leave.”

“Why so early?” I asked, opening the sliding door into the living room.

She looked at me, “It’s a long story.”

“I like a good, long story,” I told her.

“Not tonight,” she said.

I inquired if it would see her again, but she just waved goodbye.  I watched her make a call as she went out the front door.  Then I turned around and walked up to the bar.  I asked the Hispanic bartender Miguel if he had seen Madigan.  Miguel didn’t even look at me.  He was busy pouring drinks.  I asked him again.

“Madigan,” he began.

“Miguel, give me your best,” said a tall brunette standing behind me.

She had on a black strapless gown.  Miguel grabbed a bottle of tequila beneath the bar.

“And make it a double,” she said.

“Mine to,” said her stouter friend in a crème-colored formal.

Miguel nodded and poured another shot with several other mixes.  Then he put a wedge of lime on the rim of each cup with a straw and handed the ladies their drinks. 

“Thank you,” said the tall brunette, taking a sip.

Miguel looked at me. 

“I’m looking for Madigan,” I told him.

“When you find him please tell him I need more cups.  I could also use another bottle of the special tequila, more vanilla vodka, beer, limes and oranges�"and olives to.”

“And you can also tell him that Donna and Sheila are here,” said the brunette in black.

I nodded as they generously tipped Miguel.

“Thank you ladies,” he smiled. 

His eyes followed them to the sliding-glass door of the balcony.  Then he turned and looked at me.

“What can I get you?” he asked, adjusting his bowtie.

“A Classic Coke,” I replied.

“I think you’d like Madigan’s favorite drink,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A key-lime martini,” replied Miguel; then raising two fingers, “Two shots of a whipped key-lime vodka and key lime liqueur, shot of coconut rum, splash of Midori, key lime juice, pineapple juice, and some heavy whipping cream all served in a glass with graham-cracker crumbs around the rim and a slice of lime.”

I waved my hand.

“Are you sure?” asked Miguel.

I nodded, “I’ll stick to the Coke.”

He reached in a cooler below the bar, pulled out a can of Coke, and wiped the can and the rim clean and popped open the top.   Then he grabbed an empty cup and poured some pop.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me the cup and can.

“Thank you,” I said, reaching in my pants pocket.

“Mr. Madigan requests that all patrons dispose of their empty cans, bottles, and paper cups and plates in the refuse containers located by the kitchen entrance, “he said.

I glanced in that direction.

He pointed, “And by the balcony door and upstairs in the bathroom.”

I nodded.

He went on, “Please do not put anything on his speakers and properly dispose of garbage.  And, if you must smoke, please do so outside or on the balcony.  The only smoking permitted inside is what goes on upstairs.”

I acknowledged Miguel’s instructions with a dollar and some change.  He turned to catch an empty Budweiser bottle from an inebriated voice on the stairs.  I wandered off rather ill-at-ease among an eddy of ladies flashing gold chains, dazzling diamonds, designer purses; and even an occasional male in a tailored suit; none of whom I knew.  After a visit to the kitchen for some cheese and crackers, I ran into Carl Tessone. 

He waved me off.  He was in the passionate embrace of a middle-age woman sporting a platinum band full of diamonds and more around her neck, ears, and ankles.  She eyed me rather lustfully as Carl ran his tongue behind her ear.  I passed on Miguel’s request, but Carl pretended to ignore me�"that is, until I mentioned Madigan’s name.  A short while later, Carl made his way to the bar with a case of beer and bags of ice, cups, some assorted spirits, and other condiments.  After that, I didn’t see him again�"or for that matter, the woman.  And I had yet to see Madigan. 

As the night went on, the music got louder and the jubilation much nosier as small groups in the dining room swelled into larger ones with new arrivals, and then disbanded and reformed in the living room or upstairs in the sitting room; while a half-dozen handsome, young players and a couple of older-age philanderers weaved in and out of the different clusters of ladies.  I remained near the kitchen snacking on homemade meatballs and a variety of cheeses and thin-sliced cold cuts. 

A sandwich, a slice of cake, and some cookies afforded me no refuge from appearing pathetic.  So I went upstairs.  I mingled in the sitting area and even spoke to a few faces from the pool.  I also contemplated checking out the bedroom where the Weasel held court.   Who knows where my curiosity was taking me.  I probably would’ve had somebody not opened the door and peeked inside the middle bedroom.  I looked inside; a desk was centered in the middle of three walls of books.  There were even boxes strewn about the floor and piled high�"obviously, books that should’ve been on the shelves downstairs.  I stepped inside and opened a box and looked at some of the titles on top.  As I dug deeper, a man with a dry, rusty voice came up behind me.

“Can you believe this room is not locked,” he said.

I turned around.  The voice belonged to a fifty-something man in a black tuxedo. 

“Do you think he’ll mind?” I asked.

“He would encourage you,” he replied. 

He had on a pair of round, black-rimmed glasses and had distinguished streaks of gray running through his black hair just above his sideburns and over his ears.

“Go on,” he said.  “Look to your heart’s content.”

I pulled out a familiar title.

“Browse through it if you want,” he said, “but do not bend the corner or any other part of the page.”  He shook his head and added, “He really doesn’t like that.”

I put the book back down.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he laughed.  “It’s alright to look at it.” 

I picked the book back up. 

“If he didn’t want you looking at them,” said the gentleman, “Madigan would’ve locked this room.”

I browsed through the book.  The elderly man pointed at the text.

“Is that Conrad?”

I nodded.  “It’s a critical copy of The Heart of Darkness.”

“I’ve read that one.”

“I like Lord Jim.”

“So you’re familiar with Conrad?” he asked.

“I’ve read some of his stuff,” I replied.

“What about the one in your hand?” he asked.

I glanced at the book. 

“I read this back in high school,” I said.

“Then you must reread it,” he said.  “Take that one home with you.”

“I can’t do that,” I told him.

“Madigan will not mind,” he assured me.  “He’s read that one numerous times.  First time was in college�"one of the essays in the back was written by his professor.”

I glanced at the index of essays.

“I’ve never read the critical edition,” I said.

“Take it,” he said.  “He’s also read The Great Gatsby a hundred times.”

“A hundred times,” I repeated.

He nodded.  “A well-written story is always a pleasure to reread.”

“Especially those two,” I said.  “They share a similar structure.”

“That they do,” he grinned.  “So what’s your name?”

“Rich Winston,” I replied, offering him my hand.

“Gus,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously and repeating, “Gus�"Gus Donaldson.”

“Glad to meet you,” I said. 

“Likewise,” he said, letting go my hand.

“This Madigan has quite the collection,” I said.

The old guy’s face lit up. 

“You got all the classics,” he said.  “You got Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Descartes, Kant and Hegel�"just to name a few philosophers.”

 I browsed the shelves in front of me.

“Marvelous collection,” said the stately gentleman.

I agreed.

He went on, “And novels by Salinger, Joyce, Conrad, Faulkner, and Elliot’s plays and poems; and probably every English translation of the Bible in print.  Madigan can even recite Hamlet and Macbeth and God knows what else.  Have you had the opportunity to talk to him?”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. 

“You must,” he urged.

“I’ve been looking for him, but I’ve yet to find him.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” said Gus, spreading out his hands in a big circle.

He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and then looked at me.

“He’s been where you and I can’t begin to imagine,” he said..

I glanced out the window.

“Not just out there,” he said, cupping his hand in front of his face, “but brilliant�"sheer genius, simply magnificent.”

“Simply magnificent,” I repeated.

Gus nodded, “He went to DePaul.  He got his MBA from the University of Chicago; and he has technical certifications from Microsoft, Cisco, VMware and Redhat�"just to name a few.” 

I pointed at the trophies and plaques and medals on the wall.

“He was quite the athlete in high school,” said Gus.

He glanced up at the ceiling and raised his arms.

“Madigan’s a regular Renaissance hero�"simply magnificent,” he said.  “And I know a lot of outstanding people in the academic community.  I sell college textbooks.   So take it from me.  Madigan can speak with the best of them.  You want to know a good book to read; he’ll suggest something.  You want to talk the latest technology; he’ll lay out the roadmap for Dell, HP. Microsoft, and Intel.  If you’re into classical history, he can write a text about ancient Greek and Roman mythology.  And don’t get him started on the Civil War.” 

I asked, “Why not?”

“He can recite pages from The Killer Angels,” replied Gus.

“Military history is one of my favorite subjects,” I told him. 

“I watch the Military History Channel,” said Gus.

“Does Madigan talk about his military experiences?” I asked.

Gus shook his head adamantly, “And don’t go there.”

“Don’t,” I said.

“He can get violent,” said Gus.

“Just how violent does he get?”

“You don’t want to find out.”

“Then how do you know?”

He glanced back at the doorway and then drew close, whispering, “I’ve heard stories.”

“You mean like PTSD stuff?”

“My God,” he said, pulling his head back.  “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?” I asked.

“Madigan served in a Ranger battalion�"was deployed to the Middle East three times.”

“Three times,” I said, glancing at a photo of Madigan in uniform.

“He was a war hero,” said Gus, coming to attention and giving a salute.

He pointed at a picture frame face-side down. 

“Look at it,” he said.

I picked it up and looked into the eyes of a young Madigan poised in front of the Flag in a large hall.

“That’s the President,” I said.

Gus nodded.  I pointed at the medal in the picture.

“Then that’s the�"”

“It is,” said Gus, “And he was awarded others.”

I set the picture down the way I found it.

“He keeps the medals locked up in his safe,” he said.

“Why did he get out of the service?”

“The military doesn’t like risking the life of a hero.  It makes for bad publicity,” he said, and pausing momentarily, added, “Madigan wasn’t a spit-shine and polish kind of soldier.”

“Well, regardless; he gets a monthly stipend for life and a gravesite at Arlington National Cemetery;” I said.

“And, if I’m not mistaken,” said Gus, “His children will be entitled to an education at one of the service academies.”

“I feel honored to be in here,” I told him.

 He looked at me with a long face and said, “That will not give him justice.”

“What do you mean?”

“His life is much more than books and medals,” he replied.

“I’m sure when the times comes someone will find the right words,” I told him.

“I hope so,” he said,

“Someone will step up.”

“We owe him that much.”

Then he went on about Madigan’s other accomplishments.  And, by the time Gus exited the room, I was searching for Madigan.  He wasn’t to be found, though.  I left when I noticed his parking spot empty.

Reviews

[Srchaud]

I like this buildup to Madigan. Each chapter builds on this guy and yet we have had no real contact with him. I am not sure what it is building to but I am intrigued to see how this all comes together.